


This Woman's Work

by AngelinaVansen (catherineflowers)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Endgame, F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/AngelinaVansen
Summary: In the future, Admiral Janeway (as seen in "Endgame") is putting together her top secret mission to bring Voyager home early. She and Ensign Miral Paris are sharing quarters on a starbase ....





	This Woman's Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressJ/gifts).



I have it. It's in my hand, on a PADD. I know who has it. I know where it is. Her salvation. Her obsession. 

The end of my obsession. 

My face is flushed as I ride the turbolift through the deserted floors of the starbase. It's 3am, but it doesn't matter. There are only twenty of us here, on a station built for five thousand. Sometimes we go for days without seeing another person.

I try to picture what her face will be like when I give her this PADD. When she realises it's attainable. Strings to be pulled, sure, deals to be made, but God, it's so attainable. She can do this, easily. I expect her face with be cool, though. I don't expect her to sing and dance. My mind's eye sees those muscles in her jaw twitch, sees the slight film of tears in her eyes. She can save Seven and Chakotay. She can save Seven.

Then I think about what that means, and I become miserable. The end of my obsession. Who will I be in the new timeline? Tom and B'Elanna's daughter. Maybe. Maybe we will meet at the reunions.

I enter the code for our door. I go inside. The place is a bit of a mess. Her cases are all open, but it's not clothes that are all over the floor. It's her stuff, the stuff she tinkers with while she's thinking. Her spent plasma relays, her PADDs full of unsolved scientific problems. Her mind must have been busy tonight.

She must have needed to relax. The place smells of her bath oil. Peach kernel and rose water. The air smells of the stuff she puts on her hair. 

The lights are on, but I can't hear her moving, so she must be asleep. As I move into the bedroom, I shed my uniform. Shrugging out of the tight jacket, my pants, my tank top, I stand before the bed in just my panties and a white cotton vest. Wanting to be with her. Wanting to inhale that scent until it fills me utterly.

I pull back the curtain around the bed. She is beautiful. Asleep, one hand over her mouth, a PADD on her chest. The other hand disappears into the waistband of her pink french knickers. The air around the bed is hot with the smell of her orgasm. So she fell asleep masturbating. God, she is so beautiful.

I nuzzle into her hair, taking the PADD from her hand. On it, paused, is a playback of one of Seven of Nine's Daily Logs. The Admiral's pornography. She stirs and mutters, and I shush her. I stroke her full breasts through her camisole, over the lace. Gentle fingers. Her sensitive, dark nipples underneath. My mouth waters. My throat growls reflexively. My Klingon blood.

She is not awake, but her hips are already undulating against me in a soft rhythm. Her breath hums through her closed lips and teeth.

"Admiral ..." I groan against her bosom. It turns me on to use her title. She's so ... senior. 

"Seven ..." she moans in response, not quite awake. I don't mind. I know how single-minded she can be, even with her lovers.

I growl again against the flatness of her stomach. Pull her fingers out of her panties and replace them with my own. Rubbing her in the strong rhythm she likes. Firm. I can almost feel the blood flooding her labia.

She is fully awake now, her eyes glittering, mouth falling open as she arches her neck against the pillow. That smooth snow-white halo of her hair. The Admiral. The Admiral. One of the most decorated officers in Starfleet history. Admiral Kathryn Janeway. Moaning.

I snake my fingers down her sides, let them grasp the waistband of those silken french-cut panties. I rest my chin right on her mound.

"Darling ..." she moans, her slender fingers on my cheek. She never uses my name while lovemaking.

I pull her panties down, and she shudders. A reflex. Cold air on warm flesh as she spreads. I place a soft kiss there, right in the centre where the wetness forms. She is so pure and unsullied, my Admiral. Somehow it pleases me to know no man has entered her for almost thirty years.

She keens as I rouse her, breath panting sharply through her teeth in little short explosions. Her chest heaves. I am playing with my fingers only, tonight. Just the occasional press of lips against her aromatic curls.

She cries out louder and louder. She sounds like she's suffering awfully, but then I am very skilled. I know the Admiral's body, and her responses. Her hands twist the sheets; her voice rises higher and higher. Thank God the other eighteen people are housed on the lower ring.

She comes. Hard. Teeth gritted. Head thrown back. Fingers and toes clenched on the sheet.

"Nnnngh!" she says. Then "Oooogh!"

She's divine.

She sits up, languid, eyes dark. Her skin is hot and she pulls me to her lips. Lips soft, tongue rolling in my mouth. 

"Mmmm," she says, lazily.

I growl back. "Fuck me, Admiral," I say.

She laughs, a throaty chuckle, still full of the joy of her climax. "Yes ma'am," she says, almost an admonishment for abusing her title.

Then she rolls me over, a tumble of arms and legs. She lies on top of me, her full body weight crushed against me. She is hot, and her mouth is hot on mine. Her serious expression. Her hands everywhere. For long moments, I can't think straight. She is dizzying. Overwhelming. Running tender kisses along my jaw.

"You're beautiful, darling," she tells me, right in my ear. Breath hot, right against my ear. I feel an odd compulsion to thank her, be so incredibly grateful that she thinks I'm beautiful. This is a woman who once loved Borg perfection.

I bring her to my lips again and love the flavour of her kiss. Sweet cinnamon and lemon, refreshing like her tea. She loves me, she loves me. She's making love to me. My brain pounds with the nearness of her, with the truth of it.

She turns me over on my side and holds me firm, from behind. One hand links with mine and then slides into my vest. The other strips off my panties. She parts my legs, not rough but determined, holding them apart with her own. 

I watch us in the pale light of our bedroom. Her white legs between my golden ones, holding them apart. Her deft white fingers tangling, teasing with my pubic hair. Moistening me. Feeling me. Circling, pressing, swirling. The shocking intimacy of this picture jolts me. Jolts me again. I am coming. Hissing, bucking, thighs tight and hips bouncing off the bed. I wail and whimper. My human blood.

The whole time, she holds me tight and soothes me. Says it's all gonna be all right. I believe that it isn't.

Afterwards I cry, while she is in the bathroom peeing. I haven't mentioned the contents of my PADD. Don't want to think about it. In the future she wants, I won't even be here, will I? I won't be smelling of her drying sex and fragrant bath oil. That will be Seven.

When she comes out, she is composed and lovely. Roses in her cheeks from sex, breathing slightly faster, but lovely. Vivacious. Sunny. She looks worried at the tears in my eyes, so I give her a bittersweet smile and hand her my PADD. I hope she understands.


End file.
